Page 122 of Flirty Fall Fling

The bar in Snowberry has a propped-open door, a cover band killing it at a Fleetwood Mac song, and about a hundred people inside, wearing masks and wigs.

Nobody turns when we walk in, and I immediately smile, resting my hand on the small of her back.

I enjoy walking into rooms where heads don’t immediately turn when I enter.

A woman in a shark costume tells Blaire she loves her Little Red and Big Bad Wolf fusion. A man dressed as a lobster shakes my hand and offers to buy us a round. I buy the next one before Blaire leads us away to where it’s darker and quieter.

“Finally,” she says. “I don’t want to share you any more tonight.”

The corner she picks is dark enough that the lights overhead don’t reach us.

“This is fun,” she says.

“I can think of a few things that would make it more fun.”

“Like?” She laughs, and it’s muffled through the mask.

The sound is pure happiness.

“Oh, just use your imagination,” I tell her. “The things I’d do to you if we weren’t here.”

“Mmm.”

We dance, our bodies moving in rhythm, and I wish I could kiss her, but it would blow our cover.

Each time she touches me, I’m convinced she wants the same.

Standing this close to her and not being able to slide my mouth across her is cruel.

After the next song, she goes onto her tiptoes and pulls her mask off enough to whisper in my ear, “I can feel how hard you are.” She twists around, pressing her ass against me.

I try to control my breathing as I lean into her body. The lights flash over us. I grab her hips, pressing her harder into me.

“I want you.”

“Here?” she asks like it’s a dare.

Her body rolls against me, in beat with the bass.

“Fuck. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

She laughs, placing both of her hands on top of mine. In a room full of masks, everybody’s too busy being somebody else. It’s the first time we’ve gotten to be ourselves.

I grow breathless before she pulls away, turning to face me. Her head tilts as she dances against me. Not being able to get closer is torture. It might kill me. We’re lost in one another when a woman and man in two bee costumes bump into us. They’re wasted as they start up a conversation. Blaire and I are both too polite.

“What brings you up here?”

“It’s our anniversary,” Blaire lies, pulling me closer.

“How many years?” the guy asks.

“Two.” She takes a step away from me, the moment over.

The bee calls the person carrying a tray of shots over, and I pass on the alcohol.

Then the bee’s wife comes back and looks at Blaire’s hand.

“Where’s your ring, honey?”